At first glance, this piece can be read as a map — a wide, rust-washed circle filled with countless smaller circles, each one distinct, each one part of a larger pattern. It sits somewhere between the impossibly vast and the intimately small.
Some viewers see a macro-view of our universe: galaxies clustered across an endless expanse, the architecture of the cosmos traced in steel. Others see the opposite — the microscopic world of cells, spores, and the quiet blueprints of life. The work invites both interpretations, because the structures that bind the universe together aren't so different from the structures that build a leaf, a lung, or a thought.
The rust is intentional. It isn't just decay — it's memory. A reminder that everything, from galaxies to living cells to human relationships, moves through cycles of growth, erosion, and renewal. The surface changes, softens, deepens in color, and in doing so becomes a record of time passing.
Beneath the piece, flecks of rust naturally fall to the floor. They collect like sediment — tiny, beautiful remnants of moments slipping quietly behind us. They represent the time we shed without noticing, the pieces of ourselves we lose and rebuild, the fragments of the world that change whether we participate or not.
This artwork lives in both directions at once: expanding outward into the infinite, contracting inward toward the microscopic. It asks you to stand in the middle of it — between the universe and the cell, between creation and decay, between the time we have and the time we've already left behind.